You would think that being a parent means setting a good example in good hygiene. Before the kid came along, I did pretty well. I got my hair cut regularly. I showered every day.

Then Monster came along, and I have never been more disgusting. My hair/face/eyebrows/general appearance has never been so neglected.

What the H happened to me? Aside from diligent exercise, I have not focused on my personal upkeep in months. Please, no one ever look at my face because it is downright terrifying. The acne and the dark circles are bad enough; but since my son has adopted Chapstick as his new favorite toy, my lips are also in dire shape.

And the body hair. Good lord, the body hair. It’s black, tough and completely unstoppable. It’s the Adrian Peterson of body hair. And my legs/arms/face are just blankets of it. It is on my toes. You could seriously just shave me and use it to knit socks for needy people. Maybe I should start a nonprofit. “My Beard is Your Blanket” or “Whiskers to Wraps.”

All half-baked ideas aside, it’s more than just the body hair.

Have you ever forgotten to shower? For a few days in a row? Or been in the shower and not remember if you washed your hair or not?

Someone posted something about flossing on facebook yesterday. Flossing! I remember flossing! It’s that thing I used to do when I could remember to brush my teeth two times a day. If it weren’t for the taste of Monster’s half-eaten dinner in my mouth (I’m like a scavenger on those scraps), I would always forget to brush my teeth before bed.

Fortunately, my son still looks at me in admiration despite the fact that I am rapidly becoming a gargoyle. However, this cleanliness issue goes beyond being the foul varmint I have morphed into.

The bad hygiene is creeping into my home. I stepped on a wet diaper two days ago. A cold, wet diaper. The fact that it was cold told me that it wasn’t recent.

Is that the place where we are now? We just leave wet diapers around the house? My biggest complaint used to be dog hair, but at least that didn’t have toxins and skidmarks.

Have I scared all you off? Still reading?

How about this one: I cannot recall the last time I deep-cleaned a bathroom. Sure, we wipe down surfaces and twirl a toilet brush around, but I haven’t disinfected since Obama’s first term. The first half of his first term.

How did this happen? I feel like a Dumpster creature prowling around a festering cesspool of waste.

Before anyone decides to send my information to some sort of reality show about unfit parents, I suppose I should clarify that in reality, most people would take one look at me/my house and think, “OK, a kid lives here, and that half-awake, hairy mongrel must be its mother. Nothing to fear, and someone please introduce that woman to a Bic.”

Most people who have kids don’t have spotless homes. But the thing is, I used to at least try to keep my home clean and my face approachable.

Now I’ve kind of given up.

My expectations have been lowered. Running the vacuum now counts as cleaning. Even when I run it AROUND the piles of dirty clothes. Putting on eyeliner now counts as getting dressed up.

Will I ever look pretty again? Will my house ever be “so clean Jesus can eat off the floor,” as my mother used to say?

As Baby No. 2 is due in just a few short months, I think it’s safe to say Jesus will have to make house calls elsewhere.